Imperfect Spokesman

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. But I'm not going to move just so I can be your neighbor old man.

This morning as I walked down Lexington avenue en route to the subway, I saw a homeless man passed out on the hard concrete of the sidewalk. He looked rigid and lifeless. Right next to him, he had a half-full bottle of vitamin water. Gazing upon this sad scene I couldn't help but think: this would probably be the last image the people over at vitamin water inc. would choose as a snapshot for their ad campaign. I don't remember the color of the bottle, so I can't be certain which variety it was, but nearly all of the drink names would appear misleading in this context, be it revive, endurance, balance, rescue etc. So much for the invigorating powers of that nutrient-enriched beverage, huh Vitamin Water?

While you guys celebrate memorial day this weekend, I'm going to continue my campaining for the new Mammarial day holiday, because women who breast feed deserve a little recognition too.

Enjoy your respective Barbecues.

Wakka Wakka Wakka

I want to a get the chinese symbol for unoriginal tattoed on my ankle.

There should not be bobblehead dolls of famous people who have Parkinson's disease.

A trophy is good but atrophy is bad. Sometimes you just need a little space.

Sweat pants sound pretty disgusting, but they're actually pretty great.

Sweat shorts also sound pretty awful, but they're actually incredibly awful.

If your name is Christopher is it okay to sign things X-opher, or is that too cocky?

I want to mail out a letter that says "save the date" on the envelope and everyone will think I'm getting married, but when you open it up it's actually a campaign to raise money in order to help preserve a historically significant dried date- you know, the sweet, edible, oblong or oval fruit of the date palm, containing a narrow, hard seed. That would be funny.

Open Captioning

I want to win the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest. I don't know why I capitalized all those words, but I did. The penultimate issue had a picture of a guy running out of his office, dressed in a business suit, carrying a surfboard under his arm. His administrative assistant (secretary) and another guy were seated in the lobby. The caption I wanted to submit was: Joyce, Mr. Peterson, hang 10, I'm running off to an impromptu board meeting. Get it, hang 10 as in wait here for ten minutes and also a sufring expression and board meeting, as in what a businessman might have but also in this instance a surfboard meeting. It felt very New Yorkery to me. Unfortunately I didn't get it in on time. (Not submitting ever to a contest with a deadline constitutes not getting it in on time) We'll see next week what the three finalists wrote. I think you should check the contest out. It's a great excericse, particularly if you think about it while you're on an eliptical machine. This week the picture is a guy/thing in the shape of the number six holding a briefcase talking to a woman who is smiling at him. I'm torn right now between two captions: "You know, you plus me equals Betty-six." and "You know, if you change the 'i' in my my name to an 'e' you get Gel." Becasuse you think his name is six and that he's talking about sex, but his name is Gil and it makes no sense. I didn't say that either caption had any potential, I just thought I'd throw them out there. If you're going to shake your head dissaprovingly though, I won't open up to you in the future. Are you happy now? Here are some other possible captions:

"I tend to attract a lot of figure skaters." because a 6 is a perfect score in ice skating.

"Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?" because he's a number.

"You look like you could use some sixual healing." Good old fashioned family pun!

"Please, call me half a dozen." Because it's so dumb, it's almost funny.

Then again, there is the overwhelming temptation to waste my submission on something entirely un-New Yorker in tone. Perhaps

"My penis is shaped like a 4!"

OR

"And I suppose you've never wanted to wear a costume that represents the # of Pandas you hold captive in your garage?"

I'm going to play a basketball game for a friend's team at a complex called Basketball City. Sounds like my kind of town. My kind of town is definitely not my kind of expression. I'll try not to ever use it again.

Good Day then.

25-Life

I'm 25 now, far too old to be going around believing the hyphen. Maybe when I was closer in age to 20 than 30 I might have found this pointless drivel amusing. No longer. Why would I waste my time waxing on mundane topics when I could be out renting cars?

I’m in the process of forming big plans for this year. I started it off today by signing a lease. That's a grown up thing to do I suppose- in fact it was so frighteningly grown up to me amidst my mid-20's crisis that in order to make it feel less adult-like I signed in magic marker (washables at that).

Walking home from the rental company's office, I happened upon a store with a sign outside that boasted: 400 kinds of beer and incense. I couldn't help but wonder if they mean they offer 400 different types of beers and also they sell incense, whether they have 400 varieties of both beers and incense or if the combined total of variations of beers and incense they have equals 400. Beer and incense aren't exactly logical partners for a joint advertising campaign. I also feel like most purveyors of incense offer a vast selection of scents. Therefore I'm inclined to believe this place probably sells something like 398 kinds of incense Bud Dry and Singha. I only chose Bud Dry because I'm trying to set the record for consecutive blog posts with Bud Dry in the text. I feel confident that with two, I've shattered the record, previously set on Friday, by me, with one.

I'd love to know the circumstances in which somebody has been crusing down 1st avenue and halted to a stop at 6th street because this sign spoke to their needs.

Better yet I'd love to find the stores in this city that have similarly puzzling products paired on a sign. For example:

Over 45 ice cream flavors and light bulbs

Try our lasagna and manicures

Wide selection of men's slacks and scrap metal

I’ll put an official link on the sidebar asap, but for now here is a plug for a new political blog storming onto the scene. It’s called exit145 and the address is exit145.blogspot.com
Some chums of mine who live in DC and are all into the politics and what have you started it. They are decent men. Give them a chance.

It’s good to know that the old man who bumped his head on the famed rainy day was snoring. Otherwise, given his age and his inability to get up in the morning I might have worried that he was unconscious or dead or something. A detail, that upon first listen sounds like a cheap rhyme actually serves to allay the fears of the loved ones of the old man. Isn’t that a nice thought to ponder on this day?

My first stab at a Tony

If you saw a piece of paper hanging on the fridge with “baby carrots” written on it, you would probably automatically assume it is a grocery list. Not so fast my friend, it could also be a to-do list. Personally, I prefer pampering onions and patronizing spinach. I almost wrote coddling eggplant, but then I realized that coddling is also a cooking term and that would make sense and therefore not be as laugh out loud funny as the two examples I chose.

Why is a game that nobody wins in tic tac toe called a cat’s game? Am I unaware of some historic study that took place in which felines were successfully trained to play tic tac toe but no winners or losers ever emerged? Why just in tic-tac-toe do we refer to ties as cat’s games? Meow do you explain that?

I'm going to write a short play now. It’s going to be the touching story of a boy and an alien who meet in a 99 cent store and try to communicate despite their language barrier. Perhaps there will be a powerful message of the universality of friendship.

We open in the plastic bin aisle where Dale, 19 is looking for the ideal plastic bin in which to store some of his belongings. As he’s backpedaling down the aisle looking up at all the bins he collides with Bixil the alien. Bixil is suspended slightly off of the ground rocking back and forth as if seated in a rocking chair, however no rocking chair is visible. Bixil looks like a short human, only his skin is silver and sparkly and he has three spork-shaped objects protruding from the top left side of his forehead. Also, his right hand looks like it’s the head of a mop. His left hand is like a human hand only the ring finger and thumb have switched positions.

Dale
Excuse me. So sorry (turning to see Bixil)…sir?

Bixil
Mikos, Mex, Mex , Mikos. Mikos, Mex, Mex, Mikos.

Dale
(scratching head)
You’re not from around here are you?

Bixil
Pen-sule! Zorgit, zorgitob!

Dale
(pointing to his chest)
My name is Dale. (pointing again and speaking deliberately) Dale.

Bixil
(touching each one of his spork-like growths)
Boonshta, Kipicow, Luunch.

Dale
Are those the names of your antennae? That’s nice. I name some of my body parts too. I’d introduce you to Mr. Hedgetrimmer but we're in public. Say, how did you get here to Earth?

Bixil slows his rocking, stands and approaches Dale. Bixil is staring down at Dale’s feet.

Bixil
Cru-noostipher

Dale
Huh?

Bixil bends over and gives Dale a shoe wedgie (you know, he pulls the bottom lace of Dale’s sneakers really hard so that it makes a big annoying loop)

Bixil
Essabonbon.

Dale
Fuck you, man! Stupid mop-handed alien.

Bixil seems to pick up on Dale’s anger and retreats. Bixil hesitantly glances at Dale with a look of deep regret on his silver-sparkly face.

Dale
Say, it’s no big deal. Besides, you can make it up to me. I’m only 19 so I can’t legally buy beer, but I ‘ve got a couple of friends coming over to watch the local news and I promised I’d pick up a case. Whaddya say? If I give you the cash will you go into the convenient store and get a case of Mich-ultras?

Bixil turns into a cactus for twenty seconds while Dale stares at him impatiently awaiting a reply. Finally, Bixil reappears in alien form and nods towards the exit.

Dale
Rickity Rock and Roll Time! Nice.

Ouside of the entrance of the convenient store

Dale tries to hand Bixil a $20 but it keeps falling out of Bixil’s grasp-incapable mop-hand. On the fourth try, Dale puts it in Bixil’s left hand. Bixil then cruises past the automatic doors on a skateboard made of courage.

Dale takes his cell phone out of his pocket, looks at the time then makes a call.

Dale
(into cell phone)
Hey, Sean, game on!

Dale smiles contentedly and begins to tap his right foot at an uptempo pace. The sun begins to set and Dale waits patiently for Bixil to return with the case of Mich-Ultra.

Fade to Black

Lights Up

It’s the next day and Dale is still waiting. We see the hour hand on a clock start to move quickly, counting the hours that Dale waits for Bixil to emerge from the store. The sun begins to set again.


Fade to Black

Lights up.

On the third day around 4 pm, after Dale’s been standing outside for nearly 46 hours, Bixil crawls out of the store on all fours. Perched atop his back are two six packs.

Dale
It’s about time, I started to wonder if you didn’t just jet with my….(grabbing and examining the beer on Bixil’s back.) Hey! These are cans of Bud Dry. I asked you for a case of Michelob Ultra. What gives?

Bixil, now kneeling, turns from Dale to face the audience, and gives the most delightfully charming, mischievous grin while shrugging his shoulders.

Bixil
Londle bark.

The End

Try as you might, you will never get those two minutes of your life back. Sorry.

Enjoy the weekend or as they call it in Spain "the end of the week."

I don't hear you anymore

We did it. F all of you punk mf’ers who said we’d never get it done. All you haters can stub your toes as far as I’m concerned. That’s right, you know what I’m talking about. We finally found a f’ing apartment. You said we were being too picky, that we’d never find something that meets all of our criteria. But guess what? We found that shit. How do you like us now? Uhhhh, yeah! I like it like that. Don’t stop, get it, get it.

What’s that? There were no naysayers? I see. Kindly accept my apologies won’t you. It’s just I’m a little out of sorts after a roller coaster of a day on the apartment trail. We came within minutes of signing one lease, having put money down to take it off of the market, only to see another place while we “discussed final details over lunch.” Turns out the other place trumped the initial place and we had to go back and cancel our impending lease signage. Don’t worry, we got the money back. I wish I could tell readers out there who might soon be looking for an apartment in the city, that when all is said and done it isn’t that bad of a process. However, I’m incapable of such egregious lying. If I were you I would take the easy way out and do whatever it takes to induce a coma. That way you’re in a hospital and you don’t have to put up with brokers and all of their bullshit. Plus I’ve heard bedsores aren’t as bad as advertised. Now that I’m done worrying about where I’m going to live I can look forward to worrying about finding work. Who knew life would be such a continuous cakewalk?

Alison’s graduation ceremony was delightful and all yesterday, but I decided that I’m done with graduations. Sorry future children. I’ll look at the Ofoto slideshow to see you accept your diploma and throw your cap in the air. There’s no two ways about it, after the person you are there to see graduate has his or her name called, the rest of the ceremony is pure pulse-molasses. I tried to spice things up with Alison’s brother Sammy and family friend Ryan by picking out random names in the commencement program and predicting who might make a gesture when they walked across stage, but that too grew stale quickly (actually, it didn’t really. I highly recommend anyone attending a graduation in the weeks to come adopt this time passing tactic. As is true with just about anything in life, I’m sure it would be all the more interesting if you placed wagers on your predictions.)

I’m turning 25 on Monday and since I’ll be in DC for a wedding this weekend not to mention, I rarely write on the weekends, I thought I’d take this opportunity to recount my top few birthdays past. That’s of universal interest, no? I obviously can’t remember all of them, so I’ll just count down those that stand out most. Enjoy:

23. 1986, 6th birthday party. I pinned the shit out of the tail on the donkey.

22. 1995, 15th birthday party. Nice to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Handjob.

21. I made both of those last two up, but they sound about right. I don’t remember that many of my birthdays but I will write about one more.

1. 1989, 9th birthday. The reverse surprise party. I went to all my friends’ houses and woke them up early on a Saturday morning. “Surprise, it’s my birthday! I’m having a party now!” I scared the dickens out of my friend Rob as he innocently watched the smurfs in his family room. Most of my other friends were sound asleep when I came into their house. The two gifts I remember getting that year were a Bartman Simpsons t-shirt (hot) and a super-soaker 50 (‘nuf said.) It’s possible not only that I actually didn’t get those gifts that year but that I didn’t even receive those gifts on the same birthday. The point is….I don’t know. I think my Uncle Bill and little cousin Sam were in town that birthday. I blew out the candles, ate some cake, gave out party favors –which never made sense to me-etc. etc. etc. If I recall other noteworthy birthday bashes of yesteryear I’ll write about them tomorrow.

Hope all of you get the apples you’re bobbing for in the bobbing for apples contest that is this Thursday evening.

My favorite Master(s)

Hey everybody, how the heck are you all on this fine Wed-nesday? I am up late after a nice little evening of basketball play on the eve of Alison's graduate school graduation. She will be the proud recipient of an MSW (masters of social work) tomorrow from Columbia University. What can I say? She's dating down. I'm looking forward to a day and rest of week full of celebratory family fun with Alison and her friends and family. I wonder if they will play pomp and circumstance or if that is just for high school graduation. I don't remember if they played that at all during college graduation, but I figure when you get a graduate degree they probably step it up musically speaking. Perhaps some Amy Grant or something. Congratulations, Alison. I think I speak on behalf of everyone reading this when I say "we're proud of you." Right guys?

Guys (in resounding chorus): Right!

See, I told you.

Anyway, it's late and I need to sleep, but I fear I might not have a chance to stroke these keys again tomorrow so I just want to squeeze out a little more.

How pointless are pronunciation keys in dictionaries? I think it's safe to say that anybody who knows the significance of the schwa (that upside down rotated e) and has a mastery of his or her umlauts probably knows how to pronounce naïveté in the first place. Show me the person who can't figure out to pronounce a word but then looks at the pronunciation key and then says "oh, now I get it, I was incorrectly putting the accent on the diphthong. It's actually debonair. " How hot is the word diphthong. I bet speech therapists run into some serious doctor patient propriety issues when it comes to learning the nuances of the diphthong.

Time for this guy to hit the hey. Luckily I just got a fresh bale so it doesn't sting my palm as badly when I smack it. My last bale got all old, tattered and raw and the more I pounded the more blistered and calloused my hand got. It really started to sting something fierce. Glad that’s a done deal.

Go on ahead and have a pleasant day. My treat.

Alls well that ends well

I flew back to the city recently. I don't mean to airport-drop but yeah, I flew out of the Akron/Canton airport. Anyhow, when we were a couple of minutes from landing, the captain spoke over the intercom and said: "We're about 25 miles outside of Laguardia. On behalf of the entire crew I want to thank you for choosing Air Tran and welcome to New York." Now I'm not particularly superstitious, but for fuck's sake, we're still thousands and thousands of feet off of the ground. Isn't that pushing our luck a bit? I'm no pilot, but isn't the whole execution of a landing one of the more crucial aspects of a successful flight? The whole "welcome to New York" rings somewhat insincere if we crash during the landing, no? You don't see NASA officials radioing into the crew of a shuttle launch and congratulating them while the countdown is still going on do you? Those are the types of potential jinxes that would really weigh on an individual.

When I renewed my license I took a vision test. During the first part of the test I had to identify blinking lights with my peripheral vision. After waiting in line at the whole foods at Union Square yesterday, I have to imagine that the people who let you know which register to go to must have taken a similar test to land their positions.

My cell phone died the other day and I had to get a new one yesterday. It takes pictures. I never really thought picture phones were that sweet, but I was definitely wrong. They are especailly useful if you like to talk on the phone while standing with scenic views on your side at ear level.

I think it's a good thing that Dave Chappelle probably doesn't ride the subway. If he got into one of the countless train cars completely filled with ads for his new season, that would probably be difficult for him, and from the sounds of it he's already going through a tough time.

Off to see more dissapointing apartments.

Make this Tuesday your very own.

VNTY PLT

Word to the wise: If you are going to get a vanity plate-which you never ever should- (zzz's excluded Thomas) make sure you leave no room for misunderstanding. Today while driving back from the dentist's office (no cavities, thank you very much) I saw a car with the license plate I AM SPCL. A vanity plate should not be like a Wheel of Fortune puzzle. The obvious interpretation of this vanity plate is I am special. However, there were no handicapped stickers on the plate. That's in poor taste, Adam. I realize that there is limited space, but SPCL could be any number of words. Perhaps Sean Penn was driving the car and his license plate stood for I am Spicoli. (Though given his work in I am Sam, I guess special would work too.) Perhaps the car belonged to a laundry enthusiast who really identifies with the SPin CycLe. Maybe it was just a guy named Sylvester Philbert Cooper-Lewis. Or maybe the person driving is using her vanity plate as a personal add and wanted passersby to know that she is a Single Parent, Caucasian and Leo-sounds like a delicious combination. Bottom line: if you must get a vanity plate, and of course you never must, but if you do, don't try to get too cute with it. If you think you want a personalized plate but can't figure out what to get, I would suggest the one size fits all vanity plate D-Bag. On a more philosophical level, what do you think people are trying to say when they get vanity plates? Are they for the person or are they for other motorists? You gotta think the irony of seeing MY LLCAR on the back of your Range Rover wears off after the fifth of sixth time you yourself see it. I suppose then that Vanity Plates are the mildest form of entertainment for others, giving people a little reading material while they're stuck in traffic or on a long drive. Kind of like seven letter bumper stickers...that always suck. I think it's safe to say that topic is officially beaten to a bloody pulp, whatever bloody pulps are.

Rick Steves writes travel books. Rick Dees hosts the weekly top 40 radio countdown. I wonder who would do the other's job better. I think I would probably rather listen to Rick Dees travel advice than hear Rick Steves read a sappy letter before putting on some brokenhearted fan's request and dedication of Mike and the Mechanic's The Living Years. I bet Dees travels in style.

My dog is so fat that she doesn't even get fazed by the electric shock from the invisible fencing recently put up around our yard. She needs trimspa or something. She's gotta start eating Kibbles and Fits. Hey-oh!

Anyone in need of new cereal to try, I couldn't recommend Quaker's Oatmeal Squares more highly. Unbelievable 3-D cubic/trapezoidal shape, fantastic crunchiness and the subtlest sweetness that never overwhelms your palate make this my bowl of the Spring. I might just be the next Wilfred Brimley with that kind of endorsement.

Back to NYC tomorrow. I'm crossing my fingers that Tran-Sition, Air Tran's in flight magazine is as much of a page turner as I last recall.

Here's hoping each and every one of you has your own safe "return flight from Akron/Canton to LaGuardia" in your own spcl way.

My Earliest Work

Self censorship has never really been my cup of tea but for some reason I began a post two weeks ago today that I never finished. In fact the draft that I saved consisted solely of this one sentence: Add Gatorade to the list of beverages that taste like cacapoo when consumed post teeth brushing.

How I dared dream of withholding such insight from the masses is beyond me. (By masses I mean the bakers dozen or two of you regular readers)

So I'm back in lovely Shaker Heights, Ohio. I think it's a clear sign that you've been looking at too many apartments when you get to the home you grew up in and you start thinking about how much it would rent for in Manhattan. Suffice it to say I think it would be out of my price range. You just don't see too many four floor units with 60 plus ft. trees in both the front and back yards in the East Village for less than $3000 a month.

It's nice to know some things never change when you go home. For example, no matter how many dogs or cats we've had or how long we've had them, my parents are both equally certain to refer to each by the wrong gender. Zoey is always a he and Poncho is always she despite anatomical evidence to the contrary. What's more, no matter how many times I explain how to use the DVD player I purchased for the house a year and a half ago, I know it will only be used during the brief visits when I'm home. The rest of the year it inexplicably stops working. Go figure.

Today at the License Bureau I made two fairly important decisions somewhat arbitrarily. As part of the process when you renew your license they ask you if you want to be an organ donor and if you have (or want, not sure wasn't really paying attention) a living will. I asked the woman working there if I was an organ donor on my previous license. She said yes, so I said, sure, I'll be an organ donor. Then when she asked about the living will, I opted for the same "what did it say on my old one" approach. She shook her head indicating that I either didn't have or didn't want a living will last time, so I said "nah" for the new license. One might think a living will and the decision to donate ones organs would warrant a deeper understanding or further inquiry into the matter, but at the same time, nobody likes to spend more time than necessary on a sunny afternoon at the DMV.

I found a short story that I wrote in forth grade in my room. It's five pages typed, which for forth grade is pretty major. I wasn't very subtle back then. My dedication page read: This book is dedicated to my wonderful teacher, Mrs. Servis.

You gotta know who's buttering your bread, right? I like how I called it a book. How it went unpublished is a mystery. Writing as a forth grader I made the narrator of this story a sixth grader named Jerome. Jerome claimed that at age 11 he was in the "middle stages of his life." Either Jerome didn't plan on making it to 30 or I couldn't really grasp the scope of life-spans back then. Here are some excerpts as I attempted to establish my comedic voice at an early age:

On my first birthday, I got a mobile for my crib, a rattle, two stuffed animals, a cat named Fluffy, and a frog named Herman. My biggest gift came three days early. I learned to walk! At first, I stumbled a lot and hung on to things, but then I was off to the races. Actually, I was really only racing Herman, who usually beat me, but...Just kidding.

Notice the use of the “but” in the last sentence to delay the reveal that I was merely kidding about losing in a race to my stuffed frog. You can't teach instincts like those.

This Jerome character showed some shades of cockiness. Check out this passage about him seeing himself in the mirror for the first time.

To tell you the truth, I looked pretty good, better than Michael J. Fox, better than Paul Newman, better than Kirk Cameron, better than Sean Connery, better than George Michael, better than...O.K, I'll admit I did get a little carried away, but I did look pretty good, actually very good, better than.....

How about that list of attractive men I came up with circa 1990. I'm surprised that didn't lead to a parent teacher conference. I've gotta think that my dad, who typed this up for me, must have influenced the Paul Newman and Sean Connery calls. As a forth grader I don't think I was aware of their timeless good looks. I don't know which is more disturbing a thought, that at age nine I knew Paul Newman and Sean Connery were devilishly handsome, or that my dad might have felt compelled to represent an older generation by inserting these two to round out the list of younger heart throbs, Fox, Cameron and Michael. Apparently I learned at a very young age what a powerful comedic device the ellipsis could be.

The story ends with Jerome on this obnoxious rant:

By a week after my second birthday I could talk like a five year old. On the eighth day after my birthday, my dad took me to a baseball game. I amazingly understood it. I had a hot dog and coke. Afterwards, I got my IQ tested. It was 120! My parents couldn't believe it. The next day they decided to put me in preschool.

I guess I didn't realize back then that an IQ score is fixed and that ones IQ doesn't change over the course of his/her life. 120 is pretty good, but it's only like the 89th percentile. 140 is usually the cut-off for what's considered a genius. Presumably I thought that a two year old having a 120 IQ was incredible but really I only made Jerome out to be of above average intelligence. The only thing spectacular about him was that he was an insufferably pretentious little prick.

The End

Homeward Bound

Nothing like the sunniest and warmest day of the spring to pack up and leave the city for a couple of days. It's cool though, weather.com leads me to believe it will be even warmer in Cleveland.

I want to open a school for dogs that specializes in teaching old dogs new tricks. How metaphorically inspirational would that be? I’ll call the school Wag the Doug- which will not only be a play on words of a movie title/expression but also will incorporate my pseudonym (Doug Pillowquilts) so as not to have my comedic reputation affect the seriousness with which I am viewed as a dog trainer.

If you were an animal that had been on the endangered species list and you discovered that you were removed from the list, do you think that would be cause for a big celebration or would you be superstitious and worry that a party might be the first step towards a quick downward spiral into extinction? If you did opt for a shindig, how would you know how much dip to make seeing as how animals have neither mailing addresses nor phones and thus cannot rsvp?

I used to get National Geographic World magazine. I don’t remember anything besides the game on the back where there were magnified pictures of different things and you had to guess what they were. I wonder if they still make World. I knew some other people who subscribed to Ranger Rick magazine, but I always viewed Ranger Rick as a cheap imitation of World; somewhat analogous to the relationship between Cracked and Madd magazines. If you don’t know which was which, than you probably read Cracked. Oddly enough (or perhaps this was the link I made in my head to connect the two) Madd magazine also did little for me besides the back cover which required folding to solve a puzzle by making a second picture out of the initial unfolded picture. I bet the guy who did those illustrations is either a direct descendant of MC Escher or he’s the guy who went on to invent the magic eye posters. No chance he’s both.

I’m headed back to Shaker Heights today for a three-day visit. It will be nice to be amidst, trees and lawns and homes and the like. It will also be nice to see the newly renovated kitchen that’s got my mom in such a tizzy. I just wanted to use the expression in a tizzy. I don’t know if it would be accurate to say the remodeling had her in a tizzy (though it probably would be) Of course it will be nice to see my mother, my father and my dog Zoey. It will be cool to see my cat as well, though Poncho and I have never lived under the same roof for more than maybe a week or two, so the bond doesn’t run as deep. No disrespect if you’re reading this Poncho.

Perhaps observations about suburbia will fuel some reinvigorated posts in the days to follow. I have trips to the dentist and DMV lined up while there so get ready to wade in some uncharted comic waters. I really know how to do it up in Cleveland.

Why haven’t they invented a pocket protector for your pants pockets? I seem to see more ink stains on pants than I do breast pockets. Somebody should invent teacher pants that come with ink resistant pocket linings and chalk stain-proof pleats. Whatever the hell pleats are.

Here’s hoping air-trans’ peanuts are honey roasted….if you know what I mean.

p.s. I meant that literally you sickos.

Apt. Search break

I guess nobody wants a "Customers Should Too" t-shirt. Suit yourself, but you're going to regret it when you have to spend 22 bucks to get the faux-faded version at Urban Outfitters. Hey so it looks like the pilot I worked on is not getting picked up. Enormous bummer. Though I haven't heard the official word I think it's a bad omen when a network produces four pilots and an article comes out quoting the network president talking about how three of those pilots are going to series and there is no mention of the show to which all of your hopes and dreams were pinned.

Alas, they say everything happens for a reason, so I guess the powers that be seem to think that my best chance for finding a great apartment for next year is to have my days open, freeing me to pounce on some steal of a deal the second it hits the market. Either that or they think it's amusing to see me jobless and increasingly jaded.

Last night on American Idol Scott Savol, the pride of Shaker Heights, was voted out of the competition. Right after hearing the tough news, Scott viewed a highlight reel of his journey from the initial audition to his spot in the final five. Scott was visibly moved and seemed to be biting his lip to fight back tears. Then as soon as the montage ended, host Ryan Seacrest hands him a mic and says "ladies and gentleman Scott Savol, one more time for Scotty the Body!" (He's heavyset) All of a sudden music comes on and Scott is supposed to perform his rendition of 'On Broadway.' Fuck that shit. If I were Scott I'd be bellowing out "fuck you America!" Scott, however, went out with class as he feigned excitement at his final chance to sing in the national spotlight. To add insult to injury the show must have been running long and so it cut out about 1/5 of the way into Scott's swan song. I cannot believe that the producers of American Idol have the audacity to ask the contestant whose dreams just got crushed seconds ago, to immediately suck it up, put on a happy face and sing their favorite number one last time. That's like having a presidential candidate who just lost give the acceptance speech he would have given if elected moments after discovering his candidacy has failed. Or asking the second runner up for Miss America to practice that bizarre wave to the crowd with a burger king crown on her head. Okay, so it's not a perfect analogy but nonetheless, it's heartless to treat a man the way they treated poor, devastated Scott.

The reason American Idol got cut short was because Fox had to air an episode of the dumbest sitcom ever created. The show is called Stacked. The sole, and I mean absolute only premise of the show is that Pamela Anderson is really hot. Nothing else. What an inventive basis for a show. She works in a bookstore. Christopher Lloyd is a regular customer. He should be ashamed of his involvement. You wouldn't typically think of Baywatch as being the perch from which somebody falls from grace (typically it's their landing spot) but this is definitely a far cry from the comparatively sophisticated writing on Baywatch. Clearly my Wednesday night was one for the ages.

Prior to rounds, what did the doctor call the rare case of tuberculosis he found present in the NBC network executive?

Must See TB

You guys have been too kind. Don’t forget to tip your servers. Goodnight.

Forgotten But Not Gone

This weekend I learned a couple of key red flag signals when it comes to searching for an apartment with a broker. For instance, if your broker has lived in the United States for less than two weeks, he probably isn't going to be an expert on "what's out there." If your broker carries a Manhattan street map in order to figure out how to get to hard to find streets the likes of Mulberry and Avenue C, he might not be the most useful resource for your apartment hunt. If your broker admits that he's been on the job a mere 6 days and he's really a movie sound technician looking for work, take comments like "trust me guys you're not going to find anything better out there for this price," with many grains of salt.

At Alison's seder two Saturday's ago we forgot to look for the afikomen. I just remembered that today and Alison confirmed that it's still hidden in her apartment. Yummy! Isn't it such sweet satisfaction when you arrive at the portion of the post that explains today's title? Feel free to let out those sighs of contentment. (Be careful though, as I accidentally simultaneously farted when I let mine out.)

Care to hear my two latest product ideas? They're protected items of intellectual property so if you try to steal them I will take you for everything you're worth.

The first is a brand of gum called My Last Piece. That way when people ask you for a piece you can tell them "it's my last piece" and you get to savor the delicious pack all to yourself. Frequent gum carriers ought to appreciate this anti-mooch wordplay device.

The second is a t-shirt that reads "Customers Should Too." These are going to be all the rage. The shirts represent a response to the signs posted in nearly every bathroom anywhere food is served that read: "Employees must wash hands."

If you want to be one of the first to sport this sure to be trendy t-shirt, post a comment and place your t-shirt order. They're going to cost $12. Unless, you order a XXXXL, in which case I'll only charge you $10 because I feel bad that you probably have a very difficult time finding t-shirts to fit your enormous torso.

The next time you are using public transportation, or you're sitting in a waiting room, or you're riding on an airplane, I think you should try to engage somebody your age or older in a friendly game of peak-a-boo. Initially they will probably look around to see if there is a baby behind them or nearby, but just keep doing it. Eventually they'll realize they are the target of your face hiding and revealing and they'll either be overcome with nostalgic joy or creeped the fuck out. Remember though, the only stupid risks are the one's you don't take playing peak-a-boo with adults.

I see all of you!